


ocean waves

by Citrus Scented (Umazes)



Series: the sky we share looks so, so blue [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arranged Marriage (that doesn't happen), F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse (non-sexual), Light Angst, Minor Injuries, Reader-Insert, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umazes/pseuds/Citrus%20Scented
Summary: Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand,And earnest a kiss on the brow,When we meet over sea and o’er landWhere furrows are new to the plough.-John KeatsThe truth of it is this: your soulmate is not an unexpectedly kind noble, or a popular entertainer, or even a town merchant’s son. It’s Sabo, the revolutionary, a distant boy you will probably never meet in your (undoubtedly) doomed life.
Relationships: Sabo (One Piece)/Reader
Series: the sky we share looks so, so blue [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819351
Comments: 27
Kudos: 128





	ocean waves

**Author's Note:**

> Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,  
> And sweet is the voice in its greeting,  
> When adieus have grown old and goodbyes  
> Fade away where old Time is retreating.  
> Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand,  
> And earnest a kiss on the brow,  
> When we meet over sea and o’er land  
> Where furrows are new to the plough.
> 
> -John Keats

You're thirteen years old when your mother’s insistence that you don’t expose your body starts to grate. Swimming, in particular, is forbidden. It's a heavy blow to your adolescent self, who sulks and throws tantrums as she watches the other children dunk each other in lakes and flounder in the ocean's surf, but the anger edging Mother’s demand forces you to obey.

"You must be soulmates with some kind of criminal," laughs one of the town boys. He’s fourteen and has crooked front teeth and some of the other girls giggle when he smiles at them. You don’t. "That’s why you’re so weird about your tattoo. What if it's Whitebeard!"

"It's not!" you shriek in response; the other children hoot and holler at the idea, finding it both hilarious and disgusting. "It's someone cool and nice and not at all like YOU!"

"Then why can't you show anyone?!"

The argument escalates to a fight that ends with you returning home to lick your wounds, your hair and clothes a disaster. Mother nearly bursts a vein when she sees you—certainly your appearance is not that of a respectable daughter—but more than that, she is angry that you would dare talk about your soulmate in public. 

"It's _unseemly,_ " she hisses. It's a familiar lecture. _Polite company does not reveal intimate relations_ , and _soulmates are disadvantageous to marriage prospects_ , and _nobody must find out who it is_.

"Yes, well, I suppose I am UNSEEMLY THEN." You slam your bedroom door in her face and then sit down on your bed as her voice echoes angrily through the wood, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Polite company! As if you’re even close to being a real noble. It makes you want to scoff.

The worst part is that you're afraid they're right. Maybe your soulmate _is_ a gross old man, or a bad guy, or both. 

It's a lot to deal with when you're thirteen, honestly. Clever use of your hand mirror and dresser allows you to see the letters marching neatly down your spine, but they mean nothing to you one way or another; it's not any of the children you know (a shame, because you had been hoping it would be Nala and the two of you could hang out and have afternoon tea together forever).

The conditioning sticks, though, like marionette strings restricting your movements. You are forced to covertly research your soulmate, poring through books and papers under the guise of diligent studying. Your mother is pleased. More fool her, you think viciously, leafing through newspapers and inquiring about the city’s visitors with single-minded determination. You will find him and get married and leave this bird cage forever.

* * *

As it turns out, you are the fool. The truth of it emerges on your seventeenth birthday in the form of a small article tucked away on the third page of the weekly newspaper, describing the Revolutionary Army your mother scoffs at and their rising star, Sabo.

The name on your back itches like a series of mosquito bites as you stare, trying to make sense of the characters swimming before your eyes. The truth of it is this: your soulmate is not an unexpectedly kind noble, or a popular entertainer, or even a town merchant’s son. It’s Sabo, the revolutionary, a distant boy you will probably never meet in your (undoubtedly) doomed life.

Like a death knell, the sound of your mother’s jewelry alerts you to her imminent presence. You scramble to turn the page and give her a practiced smile, blank and distant. Your eyes burn.

“In spite of your best efforts,” she says with a sharp look, “I have succeeded in finding you a fiancé.”

“Oh.” A static starts up in your ears, slowly drowning out her increasingly victorious words. It’s a respectable noble, well above your station, willing to marry you for your looks and elevate you out of the common upper class. Your mother is ecstatic and you _will_ not ruin this, she promises you. Your father would surely have been so happy, too.

“Of course,” you say, the words foreign and bitter in your mouth. It’s just another lock on your cage, after all, not worth another screaming match. The disappointment rests heavy on your tongue.

But it’s okay. You can still escape this. You can still—

“Finally,” she says, “You’ll move in tonight.”

“What?”

“ _Excuse me,_ not _what,_ ” she snaps. Each following word is a needle in your flesh. “You will be moved into the lord Lavie’s house this evening. Don’t think I’m giving you time to run away and create some silly escape plan. I will pack your things, so behave yourself in the meantime.”

Your body goes hot, then cold. You’ve never even met this man before, and neither are you married yet. The idea is uncomfortably resemblant to a cattle being traded. Unfortunately, she’s right; there is not enough time for you to construct an appropriate escape.

At seventeen years old, you move in with the nobility and tuck your dreams of freedom away in your heart.

* * *

The mansion is the gilded prison of your youth made physical. It’s opulent, beautiful, excessive, and inescapable. You are escorted by armed guards and the doors are shut behind you.

Lavie (“ _your lord,_ ” says your mother’s voice in your head) is an average man in every respect but personality. In that, he receives a failing grade. It’s not like you haven’t seen a noble before, but you’ve never been afforded such a personal experience with one.

He starts by expressing his disappointment with your clothes, then your posture, and then your expression. The latter of which is certainly his fault and his alone.

“It’s alright,” he says. His voice is thick, his consonants soft and rounded as if his mouth is full of molasses. “You have time to improve before our wedding. At least you’re a pretty thing, once we fix those clothes.”

That, perhaps, is the most salvageable part of this entire situation. Due to social etiquette, the wedding will not be until your eighteenth birthday at least. You still have time. There’s no escape route in sight, but you have time.

For the most part, Lavie chooses to leave you alone. You are a doll to be displayed at his side, after all, and he has little interest in your personality or hobbies. You are given a wing of the mansion and a small retinue of servants, and instructed to do as you please.

Except for leaving, of course. Of _course_.

The servants make you—uncomfortable. Despite your mother’s obsession with social status, you are not accustomed to having others at your beck and call. The maids are politely confused with your reluctance to order them around.

“I’m sorry,” you confess, “I don’t… I haven’t had a maid before.”

The statement puts a smile on one of the girl’s faces, one that she fails to hide from you. “It’s just kind of funny,” she says. “What kind of noble doesn’t know how to treat a maid?”

“Well,” another suggests with a cheeky grin that makes you smile reflexively in response. “You treat them well!”

They warm to you quickly after that, despite your assumed noble status. The invisible stitches your mother’s lectures inflicted upon you keep your mouth from opening and correcting them. In fact, you are a little reluctant to get too attached. You’re going to leave this place, after all, one way or another.

Your plan starts with requesting books on medicine and apothecary, and it’s in the execution that you meet Sabo.

* * *

You're in the garden, enjoying the peace and quiet of an area in which you are truly left alone. The high stone walls present little opportunity for you to escape; it seems you have been correctly estimated as a poor climber. Even so, it's worth visiting to spend some time with the tiger lilies and irises, who don't comment on your hairstyle or cluck when you remove your shoes.

You are about to tell the camellias what you _truly_ think of Lord Lavie when a body flies into the garden.

It’s only because you were searching for him so relentlessly that you recognize the blond-haired youth at all; he is wearing plain clothes and a flat cap and your name, proudly on display at the curve of his jaw, just below his right ear.

That does it, then. It’s really, truly _this_ Sabo. What on earth—

The recognition is delivered with a dose of shock as he vaults your garden wall and tumbles to a stop at your feet, tulip petals caught in the buckles of his boots, clearly caught off guard by your presence.

“Oh, damn. Um. Delivery?” Sabo tries. His face is open and smiling, oddly relaxed for someone caught trespassing, as he hands you a couple of books wrapped in rough brown paper.

There’s a lot you could say here, but none of it seems to escape your throat as it constricts with shock. You are wholly unprepared for this encounter.

“Er, miss?” He’s a great actor, you have to give him that. The picture of innocent concern as he watches you gape at him.

Well, almost. There’s a glint in his eye that suggests he can guess at the cause of your panic.

“If you know me,” he starts quietly, still smiling. You could still be heard by the guards, after all. “I’m going to have to ask you not to say anything, or else we’ll have a problem on our hands.”

"Why are you here?" you ask, but that's not your most pressing concern. "Why do you have my books?" That's not really it, either. "Why did you come through the garden?"

He gives you a calculating look, no doubt guessing at the likelihood that you'll scream for a guard after failing to promise your silence. "If I said it was just faster this way, would you believe me?"

"No."

"Ah," he snorts. "I guess that's smart of you."

Seeming reassured by your demeanor, he sets about investigating the exterior of the mansion as if you don't live there too. "Say, you wouldn't be willing to tell me about Lavie or his wife, would you?"

" _Fiancée,_ " you amend; the idea of Sabo thinking you married is somehow unbearable, especially considering the supposed groom. "The wedding won't be for some time."

He stops inspecting the bricks and turns back to look at you. "I suppose you are the unlucky bride to be? I can't say I imagine anybody else feeling as miserable about this as you look. Unless you were hoping to marry him sooner? Are you soulmates?"

It's not exactly taboo, although a little ill mannered to ask. Especially with your name so visible on his face, you suspect that Sabo discusses his soulmate ( _you, that's you,_ your brain repeats unhelpfully) more often than the average.

Still, your mother's conditioning is not easily overcome, and the situation has thrown you off-balance, so you blurt out, "No, I don't have one."

It's a stupid lie. You know it's stupid the moment you say it. What if he would have rescued you? What about your happily ever after? Sabo is _right there_.

"You're lucky," he says, and your racing thoughts are brought to an immediate halt.

"Lucky?"

"Yeah. That's a relief, isn't it?" he smiles at you again, a little bitterly this time, and you feel lightheaded. "You aren't tied to anybody. It's like total freedom."

"Right. Freedom," you echo. And it's fine. It will be fine. What were you expecting, anyway? Some kind of fairy tale rescue and romance? As if. You are used to bitter disappointment, and this is one you brought on yourself.

It worked out, didn't it? Imagine if you had told him that you were soulmates only to face his disappointment. How embarrassing! No wonder your mother didn't want you to tell anyone. It was good. It was the right decision, and you'll stick with it.

"What's your name, anyway?" Sabo asks, interrupting your thoughts. "You don't really seem like a noble. I’m Sabo, but I think you already knew that. Maybe you want to help me out?"

You can't get caught in your lie here, so you give him a shortened version of your name to be safe and pray he doesn't ask. This small mercy, at least, is granted to you.

The task he describes is simple. You will hire him as a delivery boy, giving him an excuse to enter the mansion and snoop, and he will remove your unwanted intended.

“Not right away,” he says. “It’s not the right time yet. But he’ll be gone before your wedding.”

“Okay,” you say. The knowledge that he doesn’t want you sits heavy in your stomach, but at the end of the day you don’t really know Sabo anyway, and you still need to escape. It’s just practicality that makes you say yes, right? That’s it. Once this is done, you’ll go… Well, you’re not sure yet. All that matters is that it won’t be here.

“Great! I’ll be back soon.” He tips his hat at you and disappears back over the wall, and it is only when the tulips start to close that you allow yourself to cry.

The books, at least, are useful. You spend your time studying with the devotion of the desperate, eager to distract yourself from your reality, and your feelings gradually settle into determination to make the best of things. Lavie comes by occasionally to comment on how you should practice needlework or some other more ‘wifely’ hobby, so you do: you learn to suture, ignoring the flabbergasted horror of your maids as you jab your peaches experimentally.

You learn as much as you can from the books Sabo brought you, and just when you are about to exhaust them, he returns.

“Delivery!” he sings down the hallway, boots squeaking on the polished floor. He is dressed marginally more respectably this time, with an overcoat and no stray flower petals caught in his clothes. Your name is deftly hidden with a well-placed bandage and scarf; the bandage also draws attention away from the scar swallowing up his left eye. It’s a solid disguise and the formality suits him, somehow; the maids titter as he passes.

You accept the package with a smile, prepared this time. “Just in time. I was almost finished with the previous books. Shall I see you out?”

“Please,” he says, “It’s so easy to get lost in here.”

Sabo winks, and you giggle in spite of yourself. It’s kind of fun, pulling the wool over Lavie’s eyes like this. If you could spite him more, you would. Him and all of the other rotten nobles in this city, locking up girls such as yourself and saying whatever they want. They deserve worse than this.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” you whisper to him, and he makes a face at you.

“Not this time. I’ll try again later. Wait for me.”

Although a small, sulky part of you wants to act disinterested, you _will_ be waiting. Maybe it’s residual feelings from how desperately you clung to the idea of him, or maybe it’s his natural charisma, or maybe even simply that he’s the one bringing your books. Regardless, you like Sabo. You nod in acquiescence and try not to be obvious as you appreciate the pleased curve of his lips in response.

It turns out that you don’t have to wait long. That evening, when your candle burns low and casts stuttering shadows on the walls, Sabo taps at your window. He has clambered up the lattice like some kind of monkey, clinging to your windowsill, and you hurry to lift the glass and let him in.

The gust of air blows out your candle, but he’s just as visible in the moonlight as he hauls himself into your bedroom. Cool radiance casts his face half in shadow, highlighting his strong jawline and the brilliance of his eyes twinkling in the darkness.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “I’m glad you weren’t asleep yet.”

“You could have just told me you were coming back tonight,” you retort, but the remark has no heat to it. Sabo seems larger than before, somehow, in this space that is normally only yours.

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Is this fun for you?”

“A little,” he replies. “You’re here, after all.” He seems enormously pleased with himself as the comment brings colour to your traitorous cheeks.

“If you’re done flirting,” you say as evenly as you can, “then get on with your business. I’m assuming this is your only way out, too, and I would like to get _some_ sleep tonight.”

“I would love to linger,” Sabo says, and the pause before he continues stretches just long enough to make your cheeks burn hotter, “but you’re right. I’ll be back soon. Thanks for waiting for me.”

He slips out into the hallway without a sound, leaving you to cool your face in the crisp night air. It feels like a long time before he returns (empty-handed), and he vanishes back out your window in silence with only a shake of his head and a little two-fingered wave goodbye, as if he was never there at all.

* * *

The days pass, as all things must. Reluctantly, sneakily, unwantedly. Your youth feels like it is draining with every week crossed off your calendar, and even more so with every fitting for clothes and discussion of wedding flowers. Your studies progress; not fast enough, and not as thorough as you would like without the supervision of an actual doctor.

It’s becoming real, now, with all the fears that entails.

Sabo visits you. He visits often, albeit briefly, and that helps. You catch him lying on the grass in the garden with an arm across his face carelessly; the fabric of his sleeve fails to hide the delighted curve of his lips, nor can he suppress the wiggling of his toes in his boots as he kicks the earth. He tells you excitedly about the good news he got that morning; about his little brother who’s making a name for himself. It doesn’t occur to you, watching him enthusiastically explain how proud he is, to ask if he was waiting there just to tell you about it.

You catch him wandering the halls a couple of times, peeking into rooms here and there. He brightens when he sees you, lifting a finger to his lips as he continues to blatantly snoop around. When you hear footsteps coming down the hall, he shuts the door noiselessly and immediately strides towards you, pretending that he was delivering you some pencils without an ounce of apprehension or discomfort in his face. When the servant passes by, Sabo insists on accompanying you part of the way back to your room. To sell the lie, of course. It just makes sense.

You meet each other like that multiple times a week. Although you’re acting as Sabo’s reason to be in the mansion, it’s not like he needs to be in your presence for the lie to work. The encounters are too often for you to deem entirely coincidental, and (perhaps foolishly) you can’t quite dismiss the hope that he’s there for _you_ and not just his mission.

One warm summer day, you’re fresh from the tailor and feeling stifled. Your shoes echo on the marble floors as you pass through a corridor made uncomfortably warm by sunlight and lack of airflow; dust motes dance in beams of light, silent and undisturbed. There were so many unwanted eyes. The memory makes you struggle to take a lungful of air that’s never quite as deep as you want.

A tap at one of the windows makes you pause. Sabo is outside with a wrapped parcel in his arms; he grins at you and taps deliberately on the window again before stepping back to let you open it. The fresh air in your face is welcome, and eases the knot in your chest.

“Everything okay?”

You’re not quite sure how to answer that, but it’s better with him there, so you nod. He’s standing a little farther than feels normal for casual conversation; without thinking, you rest your hands on the windowsill and lean forward to speak to him.

“How are things going?” You’d like to ask about the revolution in particular, but it doesn’t seem safe here. Not that anywhere in the mansion particularly is.

“Oh, you know,” Sabo says casually. The response seems a little forced. “Still working away! No time to take a break.”

“Isn’t this a break, right now?” You eye him skeptically. “Unless that package is for me. It doesn’t look book-shaped, though.”

Something in your expression earns a laugh, lightening his countenance. “Of course, spending time with a pretty girl like you is never work.” It’s obvious he tries these lines to make you blush, and it’s equally frustrating how effective they are. “You’re right. This is for you. Open it up and see.”

Sabo steps forward. The parcel is cradled carefully in his arms and handed to you as if it contains a newborn baby. You unwrap the brown paper to reveal flowers; ones that don’t grow in the garden, some you’ve never seen before. It’s obvious that some care went into the arrangement of the colourful blossoms, and your heart aches at the thought of Sabo choosing them for you.

_He doesn’t want you_ , you try to remind yourself, and feel a stab of guilt over this entire charade.

“You were looking stressed over the last couple of weeks, so I wanted to cheer you up,” he says, and because he’s watching your expression you try to smile. The reaction seems to be satisfactory. You see him mirror the gesture. 

“Thank you,” you say, hugging the blooms to your chest. “You always seem to show up at the right moment.”

“It’s one of my superpowers.” Sabo winks at you, and the tightness of your chest eases. It feels like you can actually breathe now.

With the relief comes the realization that neither of you pulled back after he handed you the flowers. You’re standing entirely too close to be appropriate; the proximity makes your face heat further with embarrassment and shyness, forcing you to glance away. A moment later you risk a quick peek at Sabo and your vision is almost consumed by the darkness of his eyes, nearly swallowed up by blown pupils. He’s close, so close, even more than before.

He leans just a touch further, until his breath is warm and feathery against your lips, and then—

The sound of footsteps from the street makes both of you jerk back. Sabo looks neither ashamed nor afraid, only puzzled (and it’s definitely your imagination if you think he seems a bit disappointed. He’s just playing around, after all). Your heart thunders in your chest. You panic, your spine crawling, muddled thoughts only able to settle on escaping before you do anything more incriminating. A stuttered goodbye barely escapes your lips before you turn and flee the scene.

* * *

He gives you space for all of two days.

With your wedding still approaching, every date marked off on the calendar is a loss; but when you round the corner in the garden and find him lounging on a stone bench, it suddenly feels like it hasn’t been long enough. The memory of your hasty retreat is still humiliatingly fresh in your memory and you only just avoid physically cringing.

Sabo spots you in an instant, a welcoming smile gracing his face as if nothing had happened. 

“Well, hello there.”

He pats the space beside him and you perch there hesitantly, unable to stop your instinctive desire to get close. Relief at seeing him again wars with your shame. You wonder if it’s the soulmate connection between you that keeps you trapped in his orbit or if it’s just Sabo’s own charisma. He’s like the sun, always bright and welcoming, and you’re helplessly drawing near to him no matter how much you tell yourself it will end in you burning to ash.

“I didn’t expect to see you anytime soon after you ran off like that,” he says cheerfully, “so I thought I’d just have to make my own appearance.”

“Sorry,” you mutter. Your mother’s etiquette lessons lock your spine in place, unable to let you shy away from him. Your hands twist together restlessly in your lap for a moment before you force them to relax as you remember that, too, is improper. “I was worried someone would see us and report back to Lord Lavie. That would’ve been bad.”

“Aha. For a moment I was worried you just didn’t want to be seen with me.” Something unreadable flashes in Sabo’s eyes before they clear again and he laughs softly. The movement causes him to wince almost imperceptibly, but you’ve spent ample time covertly observing him at this point and it’s clear as day to you that he’s in pain.

“Did you get hurt?”

“It’s nothing big. I had a bit of an altercation across town this afternoon,” he says.

“It’s enough to cause you pain,” you protest. “Come with me? I can sneak you into my room and take a look at it.”

Sabo looks a bit conflicted at that, something like desire and apprehension warring in his gaze, but eventually he smiles ruefully and nods in acquiescence. He follows you through the halls like a hulking shadow, entirely noiseless despite the clunky boots adorning his feet. You idly wonder how many times he’s skulked through someone else’s home like this.

Once your bedroom door is shut and locked, you all but order him to sit on your bed and show you the wound. Sabo seems to have settled whatever conflict he was having on the way to your wing of the mansion; he complies with a cheeky little grin, taking his sweet time shedding his coat and unbuttoning his shirt. His eyes never stray from you as he undresses, blatantly enjoying your increasingly flustered countenance.

“Someone’s feeling a bit bossy today.” The grin widens as he watches you scowl at him, your face on fire.

“And someone’s been a bit clumsy today,” you quip back. The banter comes easy despite your previous tension, as if this is how you should naturally be. Your first glimpse of the wound causes a bolt of momentary alarm to pass through your body, but you become accustomed to the sight. There’s a long scratch across his torso, stretching from the side of his ribs down to his lower abdomen on the opposite side. The wound is dark with early scabbing and the surrounding skin is angry and inflamed. It looks painful, but not serious.

“You didn’t even bandage it?” You tut at him as you pick through a small bag of first aid supplies. It proved difficult to teach yourself anything advanced beyond reading up on theory, but at the very least you were confident that you could clean and dress injuries such as this.

“I heal quickly,” Sabo says. He still looks amazingly relaxed, even cheerful, considering the situation. “I’ve had much worse than this, trust me. But I can’t say that I don’t enjoy watching you fuss over me like this.”

“Be quiet,” you hiss, mortified. Sabo’s absolute lack of concern makes your focus waver and suddenly you can’t stop noticing his body; how defined his abs are, the gentle movements of his shallow breathing as he reclines slightly to give you room, the flex of his muscles as you dab at the wound and carefully clean crusted blood away. Sabo bites his lip to stifle a laugh and obligingly stays silent until you're done, letting you burn under his silently amused gaze.

After what feels like an eternity passes, you finally step away from him and heave a sigh of relief. 

“How does it feel? Better?”

“I’m practically cured,” Sabo says. His eyes sparkle. “Your concern has completely dulled the pain.”

“Stop teasing me and leave if you’re fine.”

“Okay, I got it.” He doesn’t antagonize you further and instead dresses himself again, heading for your window. He hesitates at the window for a moment, turning back. His fingers rub absently over his jaw for a moment.

“We’re… What do you think of me?”

You blink at him. There’s no way you can tell him your actual thoughts; that he keeps you up at night, wanders through your thoughts during the day, trails heat across your skin with strings of gentle and teasing words. That he’s your lifeline and your only remaining friend and your soulmate, and you _need_ him.

“You’re a good person,” you say to fill the silence. WIth all the words you’ve locked away, that has to be enough. Your heart throbs in your chest, beating loudly enough that you hope he can’t hear it and tell, somehow, that you’re probably in love with him. Your back itches uncomfortably.

Sabo looks thoughtful for a moment. Then he nods to himself and tips his hat, shooting you a quick wink and a smile. “I see. That’s good, then. Thank you for your help, milady.”

He’s gone in the blink of an eye. The departure leaves you feeling a little lonelier than last time. 

You weren’t supposed to fall for him. You weren’t supposed to need him, because he doesn’t need you. This is only setting yourself up for a lifetime of misery when it doesn’t work out.

You can’t resist the way he looks at you.

This is bad.

* * *

Sabo is in your bedroom again. He’s become bolder over time, climbing through your window even in the middle of the day. His business in Lavie’s mansion has long since been completed, but he continues to keep you company without even the most shameless of pretenses. Maybe he pities you. Maybe he’s bored? You dread what might happen if someone happens to see him, but you can’t bear to turn him away. It’s bad for your heart. _He’s_ bad for your heart.

“The boys think I’m getting hurt on purpose now,” he says with a laugh as you press a plaster over his cheekbone, “ so that the mysterious pretty lady who’s been patching me up will be forced to see me again.”

“I’d be tempted to believe them with the frequency that you come to visit,” you reply. You’ve become comfortable in his presence after repeated exposure. Today you lean close, brushing against Sabo’s side to inspect his face for any other scrapes or cuts. Your fingers smooth over the puckered edges of his scar gently, curiously. Bright eyes track your movements with interest. He crosses his eyes humorously to make you smile. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of hotshot prodigy. Why are you turning up here every few days with a new problem?”

“They might be partially right,” Sabo says slyly. He laughs again when you hit him playfully. “It’s good practice for you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

You fall silent for a minute. Sabo leans into you briefly, his arm pressed against yours. Your heartbeat quickens at the contact. The faint scent of cologne drifts into your nose. He fits against you as if he was made to be there, and you suppose that maybe he was.

“You’ve been working hard. We’re almost there, you know,” he says, looking at the ceiling. His face turns a bit somber. “The dates are pretty much set; this country’s nobility will be overthrown, the population liberated. You included.”

“When?” you whisper. The wedding has been set for two weeks from now. You haven’t told Sabo.

“In a month, if all goes well.” 

Your heart sinks. It’s not soon enough. You have to—delay the wedding, or something. Speed up their plans. Escape. You think furiously of which approach to present to Sabo. You _can’t_ go through with this wedding. The very thought of walking down the aisle and having to kiss Lavie makes you sick to your stomach.

“Something wrong?” Sabo’s words startle you out of your thoughts. You realize you’ve been silent for too long.

“It’s after my wedding,” you admit quietly. His expression falls. You already know that Sabo can’t change this entire operation by himself; that’s simply not how an organization operates. You’ll just have to think of something else.

“There has to be a way to stop the wedding,” he says, looking perturbed, “but we can’t do anything flashy and risk something going wrong in our planned attack. As much as I would love to just kick that noble’s ass and spirit you away…”

Your heart skips a beat at the notion, even though you know it’s futile, and you smile at Sabo. “I appreciate the thought.”

You spend a couple of minutes thinking. Sabo falls back on your bed, frustrated, and cracks his head with a loud thump against the book you left there.

“Ow!”

“Wow, even a book can defeat you.”

“Uncalled for,” he says absently, fingers brushing over the cover of the tome. “Poison, huh…”

Your first thought is poisoning Lavie, but it would be difficult; you don’t share your meals or visit each other often. Your second thought is daunting, reckless—

“I’ll poison myself.”

“What?!”

“I’m not going to actually die,” you say as Sabo starts to protest, “but the only way I’m getting out of this wedding is if I’m too sick to attend it. I remember reading about a poison in this book that will give me a persistent fever. If I can get sent back home to recover, you can help me on the way out…”

Sabo pulls his hat off and runs a hand through his hair, seeming at a loss for words. “Or I can just jump the garden wall with you over my shoulder, it’ll be less risky!”

“That would draw attention. If I’m known to be sick, then nobody will come looking for me,” you say earnestly. His expression twists further. “My mother only cares about this marriage, so as long as she doesn’t find out I’m supposed to be coming home, it will work. You’re supposed to be my errand boy, anyway. This will buy us the last couple of weeks you need without anything going wrong.”

He contemplates that for a few minutes, thinking it over carefully. You can see the gears grinding in his head. “This is a risky plan,” Sabo eventually says with a furrowed brow, “but I can’t come up with anything better.”

You thought he might just let you get married to Lavie and then widowed shortly after. The acquiescence comes as a sharp relief.

“So you’ll help me?”

“Yes. I won’t watch you marry that pig.”

His eyes are cool and reassuring when they meet your own and you realize how restless and worried you were getting. The steady gaze helps you settle. There’s someone on your side.

He might not need you, but you're going to rely on Sabo all the same. Just for a while. Surely you've earned this much.

* * *

It’s simple enough with Sabo’s help. He procures the herb you request; something you wouldn’t normally be able to get on your own, even with the help of a normal errand boy, so that when you fall sick it will be difficult to determine the cause. You know that if they can’t figure out the cause, they’ll take longer to cure it. For now your main goal is to buy time.

He promises to be on call, waiting. “I can spare the time,” Sabo says.

“You don’t have work?”

“It can wait. I’ll be here when you need me.”

“How will you know?” you ask him. You realize that you haven’t come up with a signal for him to intervene if anything goes awry.

“I’ll know,” Sabo says with a cryptic smile, “just believe in me.”

It hurts more than expected when the poison actually kicks in. Your stomach cramps painfully, then burns. Your entire body burns. A fever follows soon after, one that no amount of tea brought by your maids nor cool baths can seem to reduce.

A doctor is eventually called to examine your prone, sweating form. He frowns with befuddlement after a thorough observation.

“No changes in diet? Environment? Stress levels?”

“None, sir,” one of your maids says. A little light bulb goes off over her head. “Perhaps she’s made herself sick over the wedding?”

It couldn’t have been more perfect if you planned it, you think blurrily. That was exactly what you needed.

“Home,” you wheeze. The doctor and maids’ heads all snap towards you. “Want to...be at home.”

“Stress typically doesn’t manifest this strongly,” the doctor muses. He looks unconvinced, but doesn’t pursue the matter further. “If there are no other contributing elements, it’s worth trying. You can call for me again if the symptoms do not resolve. As long as the fever is managed, the illness doesn’t appear fatal in any way.”

Lavie makes a brief appearance to find out what’s going on. “Useless girl,” he comments upon seeing your condition. You don’t register even the slightest bit of hurt upon hearing the insult. “I suppose we shall have to postpone,” he says, looking unhappy. “I won’t have my bride looking like a corpse as she walks down the aisle.”

He asks the doctor how long you’ll be indisposed and receives a shrug in response. It depends on how long your fever takes to break.

“We’ll delay it another month,” Lavie eventually says. “I suppose it doesn’t matter so long as I have a wife by the end of year ball.”

Pig. You won’t be going to that with him. The little voice of your mother shrieks in the back of your head about what a disappointment you are, but it doesn’t matter. You won’t be going back to her. You _won’t_ be caged like this.

Not if Sabo takes you away.

He appears an hour later, when your fiancé is long gone. Despite his disguise, the two of you agreed that it was better if the nobles didn’t see him frequently; they were more likely to recognize him and, worse, to actually care if they did. Your maids fill him in on everything that happened, eager to gain his favour, and he gifts them with friendly smiles in return. The easygoing look fades as he approaches your bed.

“It’s not that bad,” you pant. Your blood is on fire, and everything is a bit hazy; but you’re still there, and you’re still going to fight until you’re free. You think you’ve probably learned enough to convince somebody to take you on as an apprentice once you’re better.

A fresh wave of pain makes you curl in on yourself, forcing deep breaths in and out as evenly as you can to dull the ache in your gut.

“It looks pretty bad,” Sabo’s voice says distantly. You’re finding it hard to focus. “Let’s get you out of here.”

His fingers are gloved and cool as they brush over your arm, the rough material grating against your sensitive skin. Sabo picks you up as if you weigh nothing and cradles you close to his body.

“It’s fine,” you hear him say, but your eyes are so heavy that you can’t look. It’s a shame, since he’s so nice to look at. “I’ve got her. The carriage is…”

You’re so tired, and it’s safe if he’s looking out for you. The darkness presses in on you and you fade into a light, restless slumber, feeling barely in control of your own body.

The carriage ride is almost smooth enough that you can sleep, but not quite. Sabo is outside driving and you lay limp and silent against the seat. You can feel yourself burning up more and more and, damn, this is maybe worse than you had anticipated. It’s possible that this was a bad plan. If your fever gets any worse…

The carriage finally stops. Sabo flings the door open and leaps inside, yanking off a glove to press his hand against your forehead. You almost keen at how blessedly cool the contact is.

He curses under his breath, sounding way more upset than you think he should be. “I’ll get a—”

You don’t hear the rest. This time when sleep takes hold, you can’t resist even if you want to.

* * *

You wake up in an unfamiliar room, heart pounding and throat dry.

It’s quiet and dark, just stone walls and a desk and a plain bed that you’re still lying in. And Sabo.

He’s dozing in a chair beside your bed, tipped dangerously with the chair back leaning against the wall. You observe him, outlined in a flicker of candlelight that casts wild and shivering shadows from his body. Sabo seems like he’s lost weight, perhaps; there’s a certain shadow in the hollow of his cheeks that you didn’t notice before, an unfamiliar slump to his shoulders. His eyelids tremble as he works through some dream, and from the clench of his jaw you think it’s probably not a very nice one.

You open your mouth to try and call out to him but no useful sound comes out. Your throat is too dry and hoarse from disuse; a thin whistle escapes your lungs, almost soundless.

It rouses him anyway. He startles awake with a sudden jerk that tilts the chair he’s sitting in even more precariously. You watch Sabo windmill his arms for a second before slamming one against the wall and steadying himself.

He looks up at you. His eyes are wide open and wet with gathering moisture as he realizes you’re awake. Then he sags in his chair, one hand moving up to press against his forehead.

“Thank god,” he sighs, “I was terrified that I was gonna lose you.”

You try to swallow and say something reassuring, but your throat is _so dry_. You cast a glance around for water and spot a pitcher on the desk beside Sabo. He follows your gaze and hurries to pour you a glass, carefully tipping it against your mouth.

The water is cool and fresh as it fills your mouth. You drink greedily, half the glass before he gently pulls it away and asks you to go slow.

“You’ve been out for a week,” Sabo tells you, settling himself on the bed beside you. “We’re on Baltigo right now. It was close, but your fever broke yesterday. Koala almost ripped my head off for letting you get that bad. I shouldn’t have let you try such a dangerous plan in the first place.” 

Your name stares you in the face for a moment before he turns to look you over again, eyes tracing a slow and purposeful path over your body that makes you simultaneously want to shrink away and kiss him.

He helped you. He rescued you and you’re _free_.

The words you’d been holding back since you first met him start rising in your throat as relief fills your body. Your brain makes a last ditch effort to tell you that he doesn’t want this, but it’s a futile effort; even if he rejects you, you don’t really have that much to lose. 

“I’m sorry, Sabo,” you tell him. He smiles a bit and reaches out to stroke your hair. His gloves are missing, and Sabo’s palm is warm against your head before it moves to caress your cheek. The touch is a little bit rough but not at all unpleasant.

“Apology accepted.” He hand wanders over your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip before he lets go and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Sorry, I just—need to make sure you’re really here. You’re okay.”

“You saved me,” you say, and his breath escapes in a rush.

“I guess I did.” His voice is incredulous, relieved, a little bit giddy. 

“I have a confession to make,” you blurt out; your gaze drops to your hands, resting neatly folded in your lap as Mother taught you. You squeeze them together and then move to twist the sheets in your fingers instead. A distinctly unladylike gesture. That doesn’t have to be you anymore.

“I didn’t tell you my full name,” you continue nervously. Sabo is silent. You’re too scared to check what expression he’s making right now. “I’m… We’re actually soulmates,” you whisper. “My name is—”

“I know,” Sabo says. His tone is ambiguous.

“You know,” you repeat dumbly. You realize that you’re wearing different clothes, that you’ve probably been bathed, and wonder if he—

“Ah, I didn’t actually see it or anything!” He sounds awkward, uncomfortable for once. Something twists in your stomach. “Koala took care of that. It’s just. I could kind of tell when we met.”

“You’ve...known, this whole time,” you say. Your mind starts to race. Sabo knew? He knew and he still flirted with you, he bought you flowers and kept you company and helped you escape? He _knew._

“I thought you didn’t want a soulmate,” you tell him, and his hand curls loosely under your chin to tilt your head up. He looks—

He looks embarrassed. It’s odd to see a flush steal over his face for the first time, enough that you wonder if it’s a trick of the candlelight. Despite that, he doesn’t avoid your eyes.

“I thought _you_ didn’t want one,” he mumbles. “Since you said you didn’t have a soulmate even when you could see your name on my face.”

“I-I panicked!”

“Why?” He gazes at you straightforwardly. “I mean, unless you really don’t want—”

“I want you,” you say a little too loudly and desperately, and then promptly curl up to bury your face in your knees. “Oh my god.”

“Oh, good,” Sabo says. He sounds a little bit strangled; you hear him clear his throat and then feel a strong hand wrap around your arm, pulling firmly to unfurl you.

“I was taught growing up that you shouldn’t tell anybody about your soulmate, so I just kind of...lied, out of habit, I guess,” you say. You want to curl up again but Sabo feels the resistance and gives you a strong tug; you overbalance and start to fall forwards, stopping your fall with your free arm. The motion brings you so close to Sabo that your noses are almost touching. All you can see are two round, dilated pupils, long blond eyelashes, a flash of pink scar tissue—

Hints of black, of you, bravely and proudly displayed for the world to see.

“I always wanted to search for you,” Sabo says; he speaks the words almost into your mouth. You feel the faintest brush of his lips as he shapes the syllables and wonder if you can spontaneously combust from embarrassment. Maybe you’ve got a fever again? He continues, seemingly unperturbed but for the slow descent of his eyelids as he tilts his head to better angle against your own. “I was going to travel the world to find you, but...a lot happened. We found each other anyway, though.” He pauses. “This might sound silly, but I could kind of feel it. There was something that made me volunteer for this assignment, like I was supposed to be there.”

“Maybe it was fate,” you breathe. It’s hard to think with him this close, with his attention solely focused on you.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “That’s _really_ not what’s on my mind right now, though. I’m going to kiss you, if that’s alright.”

Sabo pauses for just a second to wait for an objection. When he’s met with silence, he leans the last few millimeters into you, slotting your mouths together. His lips are a bit dry and warm, almost scalding.

He kisses you as if he's been waiting a lifetime to do so, like he needs to make up for the wasted years. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first jumped that wall and saw you,” he pants between urgent, forceful kisses. “When you went out of your way to tell me you weren’t married yet—”

“Stop it, you remember that clearly? I’m so humiliated right now—”

“—I should’ve just taken you away right then and there,” Sabo says. “We could’ve saved a lot of time.”

He pulls back reluctantly and you take a moment to appreciate the sight of him, kiss-swollen lips curving into a satisfied smile. It’s apparent that he likes his own handiwork just as much.

“Hey, can I see it?” he asks. “Where’s your own mark?”

You hesitate before turning around. “Unzip me?”

You listen to the bed creak as Sabo turns to sit behind you, loud in the sudden silence of the room. He does as you say slowly, almost reverently. You clutch your dress against your front, feeling more exposed than you can ever recall; it’s been years since you’ve let somebody see this part of you.

Sabo’s lips brush feather-light over the knobs of your spine, tracing the letters printed there. Your whole body shudders at the sensation. Your pulse flutters in your throat. You feel vulnerable, but it’s okay. Sabo hasn’t hurt you yet.

“How does that feel?” he asks. His voice is low, a bit huskier than before. You like it.

“...Good.” You’re rewarded with another kiss at the nape of your neck before Sabo envelops you in a warm hug, pulling you into his lap. He rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I shouldn’t be doing all this when you’ve just woken up,” he says, a smile in his voice. The sound envelops you like a warm blanket. You reach for him, your fingers gently smoothing over the name printed against his skin, wondering if he’ll have the same reaction you did. Sabo pushes his face into your touch insistently and sighs.

“That feels really nice, somehow.”

You hum in response, curiosity sated. “I guess we really are connected.”

“I could kind of feel it, you know,” he says, “when you were upset or in pain. My jaw would get hot. I was a bit worried it was because you were rejecting me or something.”

“I wasn’t. Ever.”

“Yeah, I know that now. You _want_ me.” He laughs happily; the words don’t carry an ounce of mockery. You can’t even get mad at him. “Good thing too, because I don’t want to stay away from you.”

“Since when could you feel it?”

“Since we first met, I guess? Did you feel anything?”

You think back to the times your skin crawled, the itching down your spine, and make a noise of agreement. “I think so. Sometimes. You don’t get upset very often, do you?”

“I try not to.” Sabo squeezes you. “It’s also hard to be upset around you.”

“Sabo?”

“Mhm?”

“What do you think about me?”

Sabo doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the question. “Haven’t I made it obvious,” he says serenely, “that I love you?”

* * *

Your city burns.

Not _all_ of it, you hear, but most of it. The entire noble district. Lavie is, without a doubt, dead and gone. Your mother probably is too.

Sabo breaks the news to you one evening while you’re spending time together in his room. You were given a clean bill of health and summarily assigned to one of the revolutionary army’s doctors as a student. Your mentor is brilliant and friendly, and everyone treats you well; aside from just being Sabo’s soulmate, they seem to genuinely think you’re alright. Koala visits you between missions too, bringing back interesting updates and the occasional amusing complaint about your other half when he’s not there to argue.

Everything is going so well, so according to your hopes and dreams, that you’re almost afraid to be this happy. You’re almost afraid of how little the news affects you emotionally, too.

“Thank you for telling me,” you say. You can’t think of a follow up, and Sabo seems content to leave you to your thoughts for a while.

He settles in at his desk with some thick book about the world government. You perch on his bed, trying to acclimate yourself to the thought that you’re an orphan now. It only feels a little strange, a little unfamiliar. Maybe, you think to yourself, just a little bit lonely. In spite of everything.

Your mother is not entirely gone yet. She’s still there in your posture, in the way you default to polite acquiescence when startled by someone’s demand, in how you can’t quite meet Monkey D. Dragon’s eyes even if he happens to look at you. But that, too, will be gone one day. If the only lessons you are to keep from her are negative, you’d rather not keep anything at all.

“Hey,” Sabo says, his face solemn. His eyes are frozen on the page of the book balanced dangerously against his lamp. It’s an accident waiting to happen, but neither of you choose to do anything about it. “What did you think of your parents? If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but I’d like to know.”

You’ve already heard about Sabo’s own past from him. Even if you weren’t soulmates, you know that he won’t judge you no matter how resentful your words might be. Thirteen year old you might have said something flippant and hurtful about them in response, but you’ve had a few years to grow older and colder. The response that comes out is tempered with age and scars healing over.

“They were wrong,” you answer, “about all of it. They were wrong to care so much about our social status, and to use me like that. We never gained anything from chasing nobility. Not a single thing. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive them, or the nobles, or Lavie. They were ignorant, selfish people.

“But they were also my parents, and now they’re gone.” You smile bitterly at him. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I’m kind of sad about it anyway. Just a tiny bit.”

Sabo closes his book and stands; you meet him halfway and let him gather you into his arms. “That’s okay,” he says, “I don’t think you’re wrong to feel that way.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly before bending to reach your lips—

“Sabo! We’ve got another—oops.” The door slams open, revealing Koala. Sabo promptly jerks back and lets go of you. His hand erupts in flames.

“Shit! Not again! How do I—”

The sight of him flailing his arm while Koala stares open-mouthed is too funny. You burst into a fit of giggles as Sabo tries to extinguish his arm. Even when he’s managed to put himself out and starts pouting at you, the laughter doesn’t stop. You laugh until tears prick at your eyes and even then only just manage to speak.

“Sorry, sorry,” you gasp, “the timing was just too perfect.”

Sabo tries and fails to maintain a stern expression as he watches your shoulders shake. A familiar smile sneaks across his face as he fakes outrage and heads for the door.

“I’ll let you off because you’re cute. Be back as soon as I can.”

“Come back safe,” you call after him.

“He will since you’re waiting,” Koala says with a teasing grin. “Sabo is _so whipped_.”

“Koala I swear—”

“It’s true!”

You listen to their voices fade down the corridor and think, yeah. Your parents were wrong. Nobility doesn’t mean a damn thing, propriety be damned—

At eighteen years old, all that matters is that you’ve got a home and people who love you. Really, what more could you need than that?

**Author's Note:**

> This plot ended up a bit more simplistic than I intended (I guess I'm more interested in the trees than the forest) and a little younger and subsequently tamer than I intended. Maybe the rest of this series will get a little spicier?! Please don't expect anything warranting an explicit rating lol.
> 
> To be honest, most people I know don’t like the idea of soulmates… I don’t know if I myself could subscribe to the idea of there being a Perfect Match for everyone out there that’s incomparably better for you than anybody else could be. And the concept of being unable to resist your soulmate scares me, while raising questions of free will. That's interesting in its own right, but I don't find it very romantic.
> 
> I don’t think there’s anybody who’s guaranteed to make you happy effortlessly; relationships always take some work. But I like to think that somewhere out there, there’s someone for each person who will always keep trying. And I like to imagine worlds where the universe sometimes does such a good job designing people who could work at loving each other that it wants to brag about it, just a little.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ocean waves [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28304994) by [brokeassweeb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokeassweeb/pseuds/brokeassweeb)




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